American Hunters in Cardiff
by LexInADress
Summary: Sherlock and John are working a case. Dean and Sam are recruited to work an international job. The Doctor...well, he just happens to drop in at the right time. But is it possible that the disappearances, the omens, and the escaped alien prisoner are all connected? In this SuperWhoLock crossover, the Doctor introduces some new friends to a creature even they hadn't dared believe in.
1. Chapter 1: Once in a Blue Moon

**Hello, all. This is my first fanfic I've written. I know it was bold of me to go for Superwholock on my first try, but I was feeling daring. Please bear with me. I'm very new to this, so any tips/reviews would be greatly appreciated. (Rated T just in case. There will be Winchesters in the next chapter, if this one has any mild success.)**

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**Chapter 1: Once in a Blue Moon**

_-London, England-_

Sherlock sniffed at the man sitting on the couch in 221b. The man had his face in his hands and there was a dull noise of John moving about the kitchenette, readying a cup of tea for the exhausted detective inspector. There was a soft scrape. Sherlock analyzed the sound and direction of the noise before reaching a conclusion. 'Porcelain teacup. Lestrade doesn't qualify as one of our more prominent guests. Typical. Predictable,' Sherlock noted inwardly. A cabinet door shut quietly. 'The top cabinet to the right of the sink,' he observed. 'Sugar cabinet. No sound of the refrigerator. He takes sugar, but no milk.' His deductions were automatic at this point.

John strode into the room, no sign of rushing seen on his face. He handed a cup of tea to Lestrade, who mumbled a "thanks" in return. John took his place in his large comfy chair to begin the meeting. Sherlock preferred to sit in his green chair that much resembled a cube. The geometric shapes of the chairs were oddly fitting for the two men, as Sherlock had observed. John's chair was big and soft, reflecting his hardened and intimidating ex-army doctor façade with a calming and kind side. Sherlock's chair was more sleek and modern, with a cube shape and a metal frame. Of course, it was only natural for the consulting detective to prefer this chair, as per his cold personality and sharp edges.

Sherlock leaned forward on his knees, his hands propped up to gently touch his lips. It was odd, really, the way his palms touched as if he were praying. He was a man of such little faith in things he couldn't see. He didn't believe in a God, or anything beyond his own world. He didn't even have much knowledge of the solar system, which John never failed to point out at the most inconvenient of times. And yet he often assumed this position of prayer as he entered deep contemplation. To him, it represented focus and alertness. It showed that he was listening, ready, and deducing. His mind was a machine, and demanded use daily. Logic was his god.

Lestrade sipped from his tea and placed the cup back in the saucer. Sherlock's icy eyes flittered almost imperceptibly across Lestrade's face and body. It was already beyond obvious that a difficult case was troubling him, or else he wouldn't have bothered to stop by Baker Street. Dark circles under the eyes indicate a lack of sleep, but what's keeping him up? Perhaps a case more difficult than usual? Hair slightly spiked, an indication of fingers constantly running through it, which meant he'd been nervous. But murder cases didn't unnerve him, so not a murder case. He overslept this morning, Sherlock could tell by the folds in his shirt because he hadn't had time to iron it. Grease on his fingers leftover from lunch, Sherlock had felt it when Lestrade shook his hand, so he had eaten at a local place near the police station. He wouldn't have had grease if he had brought his usual lunch, a sandwich made by his wife, of course. She must be out of town, as Lestrade was not much of a cook and was likely to forget to make himself a sandwich.

Sherlock's mouth twitched a small bit at the side, almost in a smile. His deduction had taken about a minute. Seconds, really. John noted the proud twitch and rolled his eyes. Usually impressed by the consulting detective's skill, John still considered it rude for Sherlock to deduce clients before they were given the chance to speak. Lestrade didn't notice. He looked up at Sherlock and smiled wryly. "Assuming you've already deduced why I'm here, you tell me," he scoffed knowingly. "What do you need to know?"

"What makes this one special? I don't do missing persons, you know," Sherlock said, eyes trained on the man's face, ready to pick up any change in emotion.

"Missing persons indeed," Lestrade began, sighing in a bug huff of air. He leaned forward to place his teacup on the coffee table, only half drained. "Five, to be exact. All from Cardiff."

"Were there any connections between the victims? Family? Sex? Occupation?" John inquired.

"Of course there were, all were on the verge of world-changing scientific advancements. What I'm interested in is what you've found that has you so unnerved that you need my help. I don't leave the flat for anything less than a seven and thus far this is measuring a two," came the clipped response. Sherlock's eyes never wavered.

"Well, how about this, then? All five just up and left. Neighbors saw them enter their house, but never leave. There are no fingerprints, no signs of any struggle, and no indication of how they got out, let alone who took them, where they took them to, or why."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, clearly through discussing the situation. "I'm sorry, but I don't think-"

"We'll take the case," John interjected. Sherlock glanced over at John, not saying anything. John just looked back at him, his features set in his determined face. His mind was so easy to occupy. Sherlock drank in the look of thought on his companion's face. He wondered what it would be like to have a mind like that, one that many would consider to be normal. He imagined it was a dull existence, but peaceful. John's mind could rest. Sherlock's mind required constant attention.

Lestrade's raised eyebrows almost touched the ends of his hair. "You will?"

"Yes," John said quickly. "We will." His eyes never left Sherlock's face.

There was silence in the flat, Lestrade's eyes snapping back and forth between the two men in direct opposition wondering which one would win out. There was a tension in the room that was nearly tangible and Sherlock and John just stared at each other, willing the other to crack. After a few seconds that felt like hours, Sherlock broke the silence.

"I need the files. I'll call tomorrow morning if it's worth my time," Sherlock slowly moved his eyes from John to Lestrade. Lestrade's shocked look didn't waver, but he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah, ok. Thanks," he offered up. He stood and grabbed his jacket. "Sergeant Donovan will be over shortly with-"

"Don't send Sergeant Donovan, or Anderson, for that matter, or I won't take the case," Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade huffed. "Pardon me. I'll send someone over shortly with the files." He strode out and John stood to shut the door behind him. Sherlock returned to his praying position and John knew his flatmate well enough to read the expression as one of silent frustration. John sighed, knowing he'd have to talk to Sherlock eventually, but he didn't want to. Sherlock wasn't going to like the fact that John volunteered his time and effort for a case that Sherlock didn't deem worthy.

"Sherlock-" John began.

Sherlock's head snapped to face John so quickly that he shut up right then. "Would you care to explain why I just accepted a case that I said only measured a two?"

"Sherlock, you haven't had a proper case in days and this is Lestrade that needs your help! Can't you accept this one just because it's the right thing to do? You can help these people."

"I don't 'help people,' John. I solve crimes. Murders, mostly, except for now. Now apparently I do missing persons, too!"

"Sherlock!" John yelled. He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed softly. "Sherlock, just take the case, alright?"

Sherlock studied John, ever the observer. He was clearly distressed by Sherlock's lack of morals, and Sherlock didn't like upsetting him. He was right, there hadn't been any cases in days. It had been a little while since Lestrade had last asked for his help. Besides, how long could this case take? All Sherlock needed was one look at the scenes, anyway. Maybe a few interviews. Then he could get back to his murders.

"Fine," Sherlock said tightly.

John let out a breath of relief. "Good. I need another cup of tea."

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**The Sherlock portion of this story takes place pre-Reichenbach Fall.**


	2. Chapter 2: Bad Moon Rising

**Chapter 2 ended up being twice as long as Chapter 1. I hope nobody minds. It also has a lot more dialogue, which I think is necessary for the Supernatural bits. Thank you for the already awesome reception! I really appreciate it. Enjoy!**

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**Ch.2: Bad Moon Rising**

_-Utah, USA-_

"Well, that was a waste of time," Dean stated blandly. He snatched the rag that Sam tossed him out of the air. Ineffectively wiping dirt off his face, he looked at his brother across the top of the Impala.

The hot Utah sun beat down on the Winchester brothers and made the air look like it was boiling. The black asphalt lead off into the distance, meeting the red rock at the horizon. Streaks of gold and tan shot across the sides of the canyons, which offered raw beauty, but no solace from the weather. The sky was a cloudless blue, a hue only obtained by the most skilled artist or the big man upstairs. Or rather, who used to be the big man upstairs. Dean wasn't sure he was home anymore.

"Hey, at least we helped those people," Sam pointed out, grabbing the rag back from Dean and wiping his own face. Again, it was ineffective, only succeeding in rubbing in the dirt on Sam's face. The two boys needed showers desperately. They weren't as bad as they expected to be, and they certainly weren't at their worse. But they had dressed for nighttime hunting in the desert, which had a drastically different climate than daytime hunting. They were dirty, bloody, and now had sweat pouring off them.

"Yeah, well, I'd just like to go grab some grub," Dean grumbled, climbing into the driver's seat and revving the engine. The '67 model purred, music to his ears. He had rebuilt his baby from the ground up twice, and the fact that she still jumped to life every time he needed her made the car the most reliable woman in Dean's life.

Sam climbed into the passenger seat to the song Ramblin' Man by the Allman Brothers. He laughed quietly to himself at Dean's reaction. "Dean, you act as if you're disappointed it wasn't a Rugaru."

"Alright, I'm not disappointed. I was just expecting something else," Dean clarified, pulling away from the side of the road and flooring the gas to put the Impala back on the highway in the direction of their motel. He sped towards the Rocky Mountains looming in the distance, racing against his shadow. The windows of the car were rolled down, fresh air circulating through the vehicle to clean out the stench of the boys and stale air.

"Well, God knows it was safer than what we were-"

"It was a bear, Sam! We wasted our time hunting down a damn bear hungry for some long skin," Dean growled. The Winchesters had believed that they were after a Rugaru. All the signs looked right, and all the information matched up, but the boys found that what they were really hunting was a rabid bear attacking and killing people in the area. Suffice to say, Dean was not happy that Sam had insisted on hunting the thing anyway to give the local cops one less thing to worry about.

The rest of the drive continued in silence, with the exception of Dean's awful renditions of classic rock songs. When they arrived back at the motel, Dean worked on packing up while Sam took the first shower. Dean paced the length of the room like a caged up animal. Damn Sam for not seeing earlier that it was just a stupid bear. They could be hunting something worth their time right now if Sam hadn't insisted on helping with a problem more fit for a park ranger.

A soft buzz came from Dean's phone that he had tossed on the bed next to his duffel bag. He picked up his phone, glancing at the number briefly before hitting the answer button. "Hey, Bobby," he answered.

"Dean? How's the Rugaru issue?" Bobby's voice came through the receiver.

"Turns out the Rugaru was just Yogi hungry for something other than his picnic basket," Dean said, agitated to think about it again.

"Well, don't bother hunting down Boo-Boo, we've got a bigger problem. How soon can you be here?"

Sam emerged from the bathroom in a plaid shirt and jeans, despite the heat. He rubbed at his wet hair with a towel and nodded towards Dean with a questioning look. Dean waved him away in a gesture that read, 'Don't worry about it.'

"We're leaving now from Utah. We'll be there as soon as possible. Thanks, Bobby," Dean hung up. He looked up from his phone at Sam, who still looked a little lost.

"What does Bobby need?" he asked.

Dean grinned at his brother. "Bobby needs us to stop hunting down animals, that's what. We've got a bigger problem."

"And what's that?" Sam questioned cautiously.

"I don't know yet. But you can bet it's not a bear."

It took all of 15.5 hours to reach Singer Auto in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Sam and Dean strode in like they owned the place, which of course, they sort of did. Bobby had more of a "Mi casa is su casa" policy with the Winchester boys on account of they were the only family Bobby had. The Winchesters were perfectly ok with this, considering Bobby was their only family, too, not counting Cas.

"Bobby?" Dean called out when he walked in.

"What're you idjits doing hunting down a bear in Utah?" Bobby spat as he rounded the corner. He had an old rag in his hand and was in the middle of polishing one of his guns, which he put to the side to give the boys a hug. "Who taught you boys how to hunt, Elmer Fudd?" Even to two men over six feet tall, Bobby's hugs were crushing. He was a strong man who'd lived a rugged life of hunting demons, ghosts, and any other supernatural occurrence you could think of. He'd seen a lot in his time. Every time the Winchesters came back to Sioux Falls safe, he felt the need to hug them and welcome them home. He never knew when it would be the last time he hugged his surrogate sons.

"Good to see you, too, Bobby," Sam mumbled.

"Well, are you two going to stand around in the door or what?" Bobby tossed over his shoulder as he turned towards his study. The Winchesters followed him into his study, which was messier than usual, and that's saying something. Books on demons and demonic omens sat open on his desk. The equivalent of encyclopedias about monsters and hunting were scattered everywhere, open to seemingly random pages. Changelings, hellhounds, wendigos, and djinn were just the beginning. Even the Bible rested against a stack of books, propped open. The dust from the ancient writings still floated aimlessly in the air, hanging like a coating over everything in the room, as if the past were giving the present a hug. Around peoples' lungs.

Sam coughed around the dust in his throat. Dean didn't seem to have the same issue. He surveyed the room quickly and smirked at Bobby. "Oh, you didn't have to go to all that work just to impress us," he said, placing a hand on his chest to look touched by the gesture.

"I didn't," Bobby grumbled. He took a seat at his desk and looked at the Winchesters across the mess of supernatural literature. "Whatever's going on is beyond anything I've seen. It doesn't fit any description I've found yet."

"What did you find?" Sam asked.

"Well, the cow mutilations say vampire. The missing persons say maybe a wendigo or something of the like. The lightning storms say demonic omen." Bobby rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. "But even I can't figure it out. This is on a massive scale."

"Did you call anyone? Someone else has to have seen something like this," Sam knit his eyebrows. When he was figuring out a case, he adopted a look of deep concentration, running through his mind every monster or demon he'd come across. Dean just listened quietly. He was good at research, but didn't enjoy it like Sam did.

"I called up a few hunters, but none of them had heard of anything like it," Bobby supplied.

"Well," Dean spoke up, clapping his hands together, "it looks like we have a job to do."

Bobby looked up, alarmed. "Like I said, Dean, this job is on a massive scale. We're talking global here."

Dean looked unfazed. "And?"

Bobby's warning registered with Sam first and his previously knit eyebrows relaxed, taking on more of a look of concern. "You mean, it's an international case," Sam clarified. Bobby nodded slowly and looked to Dean, who still had an expression of confusion on his face. "Where?" Sam asked.

"Wales."

This time, Dean's look of confusion shifted to one of disbelief and realization. He was quiet for a few minutes as the information sank in. "Uh-uh. No way. Someone else can work this job, Bobby."

"Dean, you and Sam are the only two hunters I would send over there right now. I'm not saying you're the best hunters, but I'm saying you're the most capable," Bobby cut in.

"Where in Wales?" Sam asked, more gentle than his older brother.

"Cardiff," Bobby answered.

"Bobby, we're not going to Cardiff," Dean stated, trying to leave as little room for argument as possible.

"We'll take the job," Sam said coolly.

"I'll drive you out to Sioux Falls Regional in the morning. The Impala can stay here. I'll take good care of her till you boys get back," Bobby said amidst Dean's protesting.

"Hold it, alright?" Dean yelled, putting his arms out to either side. "Not so fast. You're forgetting one little problem. I don't fly!"

"Quit whining," Bobby scowled. "It's just four measly flights, you baby. I'll buy your tickets now. Here to Chicago, Chicago to New York, New York to Dublin, and Dublin to Cardiff."

"Four flights just to get there?" Dean almost choked.

"Well, I'm sorry, princess. I could add insult to injury and make you pay for your own damn trip if you want," Bobby said. "As it is, you boys are draining my funds. You're lucky I'm willing to pay for this one and save you the time of making up new aliases."

Sam placed a hand on Dean's shoulder and pushed him back towards the next room. "Thank you, Bobby. Would you just excuse us a minute?" Sam shoved Dean into the next room.

"I am not flying all the way to freakin' Wales, Sam," Dean hissed.

"Dean, we have to. You know they don't have nearly as many hunters overseas. Let's be realistic here, we can handle this," Sam said quietly.

"You. You can handle this. But I can't fly, Sammy. Maybe Cas can just pop us over there or something, use some angel mojo."

"I'm afraid that handling the disputes in heaven has left me drained. My powers are weaker than ever," a deep monotone voice said behind Dean.

Dean jumped about a foot. He should have been used to Castiel dropping in at different times by now, but he had been in too heated a conversation with Sam to notice the angel's sudden appearance. "What do you mean your powers are weaker than ever? You lost your stuff?" Dean accused, skipping the greetings.

Cas furrowed his eyebrows. "I suppose you could say...yes, I lost my 'stuff.' Temporarily. They will get stronger again soon, but-"

"But you can't just pop us over to Cardiff," Dean said angrily.

"No. I'm afraid not," Cas mumbled, almost sounding ashamed at the fact that he couldn't offer his angelic help.

"Well, that's great. Perfect," Dean ranted.

"Dean," Sam said, exasperated, "we'll just take the plane. I'll be sitting right next to you."

"Shut up," Dean snapped, embarrassed by his phobia and childlike treatment because of it.

"I will also be next to you," Cas said.

Dean looked at Cas like he was nuts. "You? Fly? I don't think that angel blade will get too far past security."

"For the sake of the mission, I will go on the airplane with you. Perhaps you will feel more...at ease, if an angel of the Lord is sitting next to you."

"Yeah, you know, you're not exactly Guardian Angel of the Year," Dean mumbled under his breath. Cas tilted his head and squinted his eyes a bit, as if trying to understand the humor made at his expense.

"Dean," Sam sighed, closing his eyes briefly, "just take the job."

Dean still looked very uncomfortable, in his own Dean way. He blinked more rapidly than usual and his eyes flicked across the room like he was trying to follow a hummingbird. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, no doubt playing with the Impala keys. It was his nervous habit. His features were pinched just the slightest, like on a sunny day. He mulled over the pros and cons in his head, trying to convince himself to go. 'I go, I save lives. I stay here, people die. But at least I'm not scarred for life. What's the problem with that?' He reasoned to himself.

He finally took a deep breath of air in and looked as Cas menacingly. "You better be right next to me or I swear to God I'll personally pawn off your angel blade."


	3. Chapter 3: Moon on the Water

**It's strange to find my chapters slowly lengthening...but I can never decide on a good place to cut off. I apologize for this taking longer than the others, but I had written the majority of the first two chapters before I even published the story. From now on, chapters may take a few days to write. And I do love writing Sherlock's deductions, but they are, and this may be the best word at my disposal, draining. (By the way, yes, Cas will be in the next chapter, as it will take place from more of a Winchester point of view.)**

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**Ch.3: Moon on the Water (Across the Pond)**

_-Cardiff, Wales-_

Sherlock stepped out of the taxi cab about a block away from the house of the latest disappearance. John clambered out behind him and huffed at the pout on the detective's face. Sherlock had accepted the case from Lestrade, pressured by John to "do the right thing." He wasn't happy about it. He'd pout and complain and all but throw a temper tantrum at putting other cases on hold. But when it came down to it, Sherlock would no doubt solve the case in mere hours.

It was a dreary day, typical of this part of the world. The sky was grey and cold, like the sun was almost too lazy to wake up and light the European landscape. The forecast predicted rain, but thus far, the precipitation had held off. John preferred it that way. The last thing he needed was for the weather to reinforce Sherlock's bad mood.

Sherlock took off walking, the end of his long black coat almost floating behind him. He looked elegant and slim, but his pale complexion and dark clothes made him look more like a ghost of a man. John widened his stride in an attempt to keep up with him, but it took more effort than he had hoped. He began to fall behind and had to call out, "Sherlock, wait!" Sherlock stopped and turned to face John, who panted slightly in an effort to catch his breath. "You didn't…even…want to take…the case," John said between breaths.

"Yes, but I am here, and I would like to spend as little time solving this case as possible. I don't do missing persons, and the more time I spend at the crime scene, the more people may think that I will accept future cases of the like. This is an exception because Lestrade's force seems to be a group of bumbling idiots who can't see what's right in front of them," Sherlock snarled.

He turned again with a flip of his coat, the fabric snapping with the gesture. John simply rolled his eyes and mumbled, "For God's sake." He hurried off after Sherlock in an attempt to catch him before he'd had the chance to insult anyone. He was a moody and arrogant sort, and the fact that John had been able to convince him to take a case didn't sit well with him.

As John approached the house, he saw two men in suits standing about discussing matters, Lestrade and Sherlock among them. He quickly walked over to join the detective at his right hand side. He was always Sherlock's right hand man.

He looked up at the men in suits standing before him and pursed his lips, a quizzical look clouding his face. These men weren't ordinary policemen. In fact, they didn't even sound like they were from the United Kingdom.

"I'm Agent Plant, this is Agent Page. FBI," said the shorter of the two. He had short, light brown hair and piercing green eyes. He wasn't completely clean-shaven, either, and he spoke callously. He flipped open a wallet to reveal an FBI badge. They were Americans. But why would the United States FBI be interested in a missing persons case in Cardiff?

"The United States? What do they want with a missing persons case in Cardiff?" Lestrade asked, voicing John's thoughts exactly. He looked confused and bewildered by the two men who had just decided to show up unannounced. John had to admit that he was confused as well. He looked to Sherlock, as he typically seemed to have all the answers. Sherlock was looking at the men with his usual judgmental gaze, though he wore a twinge of disgust in his features. It was barely noticeable to anyone who didn't live with the man.

The shorter one, Agent Plant, tucked his badge back into his pocket and the taller one spoke up. "Sir, being that this case involves scientists on the verge of world-changing discoveries, the United States saw it as their responsibility to get involved in assisting with the investigation," Agent Page explained. He was tall, about 6'4". He had much longer brown hair that he tucked behind his ears. He had a very muscular build and was much more intimidating than his partner, though he spoke much gentler.

Lestrade looked at them critically. "Alright, then," he said gingerly. "How many of you are there?"

"Uh, just us two," Agent Plant smirked. "Don't worry, we'll try not to get in your way."

Lestrade sighed, looking exasperated by the foreign police. Sherlock was still studying the two coldly. Suddenly, he turned to Lestrade and smirked. It was concerning to John to see Sherlock smile. It was a rare occurrence, a genuine one only seen when Sherlock was speaking to John. For whatever reason, Sherlock found John amusing and enjoyed his companionship enough to express some semblance of emotion and affection.

But this smirk that he was giving Lestrade was one of his fake ones. He occasionally felt the need to act during investigations to get the information he wanted, or to get the truth out of people. John had seen him burst into tears at the death of one of his "old friends" to discover the truth behind Janus Car Rentals. He watched him get anxious and panicked after being "mugged" outside Irene Adler's. He even remembered Sherlock being the embarrassed neighbor when he needed access to a man's flat. This was evidently another case that required his skills as a thespian.

"Lestrade, if you wouldn't mind, I could show these nice agents the crime scene," Sherlock offered. His smile reminded John more of the cartoon Grinch than anything. "Perhaps they could be of use? They may find something that we so carelessly overlooked."

Lestrade looked incredulous at the notion that Sherlock would believe that he, the great consulting detective, would miss something. But Lestrade knew better than to say anything about it, considering that he knew Sherlock had different...methods when it came to human relations.

"Alright," Lestrade said, drawing out his words. He seemed to be thinking it over before agreeing completely. He was probably deciding whether or not to trust Sherlock with his crime scene, as the two of them often acted like primary school children who couldn't share toys. "Go ahead inside," he said finally, deciding to trust Sherlock. He didn't have much of a choice if he wanted the man's help.

John stayed quiet during the conversation, taking in the situation. He didn't want to say anything that would put off Sherlock, or Lestrade, for that matter. But his curiosity was itching about these two Americans. Regardless of the identities of the victims, these men had to know that they had no jurisdiction overseas. As the crimes were committed in the United Kingdom, they really had no right to be poking around. Lestrade seemed too frazzled to realize this, and too desperate to reject any help they might offer.

Agents Plant and Page nodded their thanks and strode towards the house. It was a smaller building in the middle of nearly identical structures surrounding it and extending down to the horizon. It was a typical housing area for Cardiff, and the design was nothing out of what would be ordinary for the area.

Sherlock started after them, but Lestrade put a hand out to stop him before he got too far. Lestrade stared at him with a concerned look. "Sherlock, what are you up to? You can't honestly mean to involve them. I called you in, not some American government agents. If my superior hears about this-"

"Now, Detective Inspector, is that any way to treat our guests?" Sherlock cut him off, smirking again. He walked around Lestrade and followed the FBI agents to the door. Lestrade sighed and rubbed his face in exasperation.

John approached Lestrade and stopped so that they were shoulder to shoulder. "I'll watch him," John mumbled.

Lestrade looked up and gave John a grateful look. "You're the only one who can. You're the only one who's even come close to understanding how he thinks."

John nodded quietly and went to find his friend, not harboring any desire to leave him alone with two men who had a good two inches on him at least. Sherlock was many things. He was clever, intelligent, and of course, brilliant. But he was not smart. Odds were that he'd manage to anger Plant and Page before John could even get to him.

"Sherlock?" John called when he entered the house. He wandered around, avoiding rooms filled with Lestrade's investigative teams. Sherlock wouldn't want people poking around while he working, so he wouldn't bother with those rooms yet. He found a quiet area at the back of the house and poked his head into one of the rooms. "Sherlock...?"

It was a dining room right off the kitchen. A long wooden table separated Sherlock from the FBI agents. He stood perfectly still, just staring at them. John knew enough to know that he was deducing them, but to the agents who had just met Sherlock, he was simply staring them down. They shifted their feet every so often and tried their best to not look entirely uncomfortable.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked finally.

"We're the FBI," Agent Page answered softly, giving Sherlock and earnest and almost pleading look.

"No you're not, so don't bother trying to lie to me again," Sherlock snapped. "I said, who are you?"

"Listen, pal, we're just here to help investigate. Now this was the home of...Dr. Joseph Burns, right?" Agent Plant asked. Agent Page pulled out a small notebook and, flipping to the first page, poised his pen above the paper.

The corners of Sherlock's lips tugged upward knowingly, and he rolled his eyes at their attempt to deceive him again. He walked slowly around the dining room table, getting far too close for comfort for the Americans. They seemed to much prefer that Sherlock stay on his side of the table. Sherlock didn't get close to them at all, instead choosing to inspect the china dishes stored in the cabinet in the corner of the room. But he was now on Plant and Page's side of the table, which seemed to make them nervous.

"I suppose you think you're quite believable," Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off the china. "You come in with your obviously fake badges, looking more like businessmen than FBI. You give your speech, clearly rehearsed, about why you're here. I knew right away, you know. You're not FBI, so I will ask one more time. Who are you? And please don't try to lie again, I find it very insulting, and you wouldn't want to cause an international incident."

John watched the two agents' faces fall as Sherlock spoke. There was a mixture of shock, disbelief, and despair in their faces. Plant had some anger mixed in as well. John moved to the opposite side of the dining table, cutting off their way to the door. Now they were all, for the most part, wedged between the wall and the table. Clearly no one was going anywhere soon.

"What he means is, tell us the truth or we shall have you removed from the premises and sent back to America," John threatened.

Page looked at Plant, who shrugged in response. Page sighed. "Look," he began, "my name's Sam Winchester. This is my brother, Dean. We're not FBI, we're just regular guys."

"Yeah, regular guys," Dean mocked and rolled his eyes. Sam glared at him, but continued.

"We're here to investigate, not just the disappearances, but everything. This place has been having lightning storms, right? That has to be kind of unusual. And the cow mutilations? How often do you see that?"

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and began typing away at the keypad. John wanted to keep the men talking, since they hadn't noticed it. God only knew how they'd respond to it and John was in no condition to take on these men who had both height and size advantage on him.

"Are you trying to say that some dead cows and freak weather have something to do with the disappearance of six of the world's most intelligent persons?" John asked confusedly.

Sam looked at Dean, who shrugged again. "I guess so," he said, sounding apologetic.

"Well, tell me, Sam Winchester," Sherlock said, "what is it exactly that you do? You're a criminal, but evidently not a very smart one." Sam flinched at the insinuation.

"How so?" he asked.

John knew what was coming before Sherlock said anything. A string of deductions tumbled out of Sherlock's mouth, perfectly articulated in a way that no one could ever hope to replicate. "Your suits. Worn, not professionally pressed. That says clean, but old. Your badges. The seams are worn, which says that you've flipped them open on more than one occasion. Considering that the badges are fake, this means that you've broken into more than one place, presumably places you have no right to be. Now, your speech. Oh, you thought you were oh-so-clever with your excuse. I applaud you gentlemen, for your effort, but the speech was rehearsed. As soon as you gave your names, I looked you up. I see you've been on the FBI's Most Wanted list for some time now. That seems a bit odd for two men claiming to be FBI themselves. I see that you're wanted for murder, fraud, theft, kidnapping, and all sorts of other exciting things. So tell me, what do you want with a missing persons case in Cardiff? You couldn't have committed the crime, even you would know better than return to the scene. So what do you want?"

To say that Sam and Dean looked surprised would be the understatement of the year. Dean had turned white as a ghost and Sam's eyes widened. His mouth hung open and he seemed to be grasping for air, not just words. They were apparently not used to being figured out so quickly.

"Hey, we're just trying to help here," Dean said when he regained a bit of composure.

"But why? Why are you so intent on helping? You don't expect us to believe you're just good Samaritans taking a trip across the pond," Sherlock sneered.

"Actually, we do," Sam persisted. "We really are here to help."

"And why are you so sure we need your help?" John asked.

"Because this is bigger than you think!" Dean yelled. The room went quiet and Dean sucked in a breath before continuing. "I mean, with six kidnappings of real smart folks known worldwide, that kind of trumps on the list of priorities, regardless of the country. We have experience with this kind of thing."

"Well, of course criminals would have experience with kidnappings. But Sam said something about dead cows and the bloody weather having to do with this!" John exclaimed.

"They're demonic omens," Sam mumbled.

"I beg your pardon?" John asked, bewildered by the wild assumptions being thrown his way.

"Demonic omens," Sherlock reiterated. If one could literally blow a person away with words, then Sam, Dean, and John would all be in Ireland. Bewildered and shocked are not nearly strong enough adjectives to describe the surprise on their faces. His words shocked the room to silence once again. "Which they are, clearly. But these brothers are missing one very important factor. Demons and demonic omens are fictitious. I will give you two a minute and a half to clear out of this building before I order Lestrade to have you removed."

"You have to listen to us, you're in danger," Dean said, advancing towards Sherlock.

"I assure you, take one more step and I will have you deported back to America," Sherlock growled.

And that's about the time that Cas decided to show up and help the Winchesters - again.

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**Don't you just love cliffhangers?**


	4. Chapter 4: Everyone's Gone to the Moon

**I apologize for the few days' wait on this chapter. I never liked how I was writing Cas and Sherlock meeting. I also really wanted to write the Winchesters on a plane, so I'm sorry that took up a lot of the focus. This might be the last chapter for a few days (or about a week) because unfortunately, finals week is approaching. But I am planning to bring the Doctor in for either the next chapter or chapter 6. Thank you to my readers and please keep reviewing! I love reviews!**

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**Ch.4: Everyone's Gone to the Moon**

_-Cardiff, Wales-_

For Sam, the flight from Sioux Falls to Cardiff was relatively uneventful. He mostly slept, which made the flights feel more like a half hour each. The hum of the plane acted as white noise for him, and the heat from the sunlight filtering in through his window was welcome. Dean had made him take the window seat so that he couldn't see how high up they were. He could better imagine being in a stationary room if he was sitting in the middle or aisle seat. Besides, he wanted Sam on one side and Cas on the other. Sam wasn't sure what kind of protection that would offer, but if it got Dean to calm down during the flights, then it was worth the trouble.

When Sam was awake, he'd rhythmically chew his mint gum to stave off the inevitable ear popping and listen to his iPod. As much as he loved listening to classic rock with his older brother, he missed listening to his own favorite music. He only kept in one ear bud so that he could hear the stewardess and respond with a polite smile. Other than that, he stayed quiet and tried to ignore Cas and Dean. He wanted to fly in peace.

Switching gates between flights went over smoothly, and all their luggage made it to Wales. When Sam stepped off the plane in the UK, he stretched and shuffled with the crowd towards the terminal. When he entered the gate, he turned to look for Dean and Cas. Both the angel and the human looked effectively annoyed. Apparently the flight hadn't been so restful for them.

Dean had sat rigid for the whole of the first two flights. He ordered about three beers on his first flight alone, billing Bobby for the alcohol. When the engines initially fired up, Dean gripped the armrests and harshly hummed Metallica.

Cas leaned over and mumbled, "Dean, I believe it's the engines. We're still on the ground."

"Shut up, Cas," Dean mumbled back gruffly. He had seen enough movies and TV shows to know that planes could still explode on the runway.

Sam leaned over and held out a little paper carton of gum. "Chewing gum helps at takeoff. It stops your ears from hurting as much." Dean slapped the pack of gum out of Sam's hand and sent it bouncing off the floor of the plane. Sam just looked at his suddenly empty hand for a moment. "Alright then," Sam said quietly, trying to conceal a smile.

As the plane sped down the runway, Dean broke out in a cold sweat. The nose of the plane tilted up and Dean pressed himself into the back of his seat, looking very pale and like he wanted to just disappear. Cas had his eyes closed and Dean felt a pang of sympathy for the angel, though he didn't let it show. Cas probably missed having the time and energy to fly in peace, so he had to close his eyes at takeoff to simulate the feeling.

A few minutes off the South Dakota ground, the pilot's voice came over the speaker and a stewardess stopped by their row asking if they needed a drink. Cas tilted his head at the woman and looked to Dean for guidance. Seeing Cas being so...Cas made Dean relax a little and he ordered a water for Cas and a beer for himself.

Three beers and a few near-panic attacks later, plane number two touched down in New York. The Winchesters and Castiel switched gates and boarded the plane that would take them across the pond. Sam went first and found his seat, ducking his head under the overhead baggage compartment as best he could to squeeze into the window seat. Dean was just stuffing his backpack in the overhead compartment when a middle aged woman slid into the seat next to Sam. Dean let out a quick, "Hey-" before Cas cut him off by grabbing his arm.

Sam was sitting in the seat E6. Cas had seat "E4" printed neatly on his ticket. Dean's ticket read, "F5." Dean stared down the tickets in disbelief before looking over at the woman in E5. "Excuse me, ma'am," he said, clearing his throat. The woman looked up at him over the tops of her glasses. "I think there's been a mix-up. My friend booked me the wrong seat, I should really be in yours."

Dean let his words sink in with the woman, but she gave no sign of understanding. "And?" she asked callously.

"Well, I was hoping we could switch. My seat's just the row behind you."

"If it's just the row behind me, why don't you sit there?" she continued rudely, looking back down at a newspaper she was reading. She was obviously unsympathetic about Dean's plight and just wanted him to go away.

"Look, I was really hoping to sit with my brother and my friend here," Dean said, getting angry. He was struggling to maintain his calm.

"Excuse me, but I-"

The thick-headed woman cut off with a gasp as Cas grabbed her arm roughly. She looked terrified of him, as was natural. He stared her down intently and unkindly as a warning. His piercing blue eyes were usually intense, so Dean could only imagine how it felt to a regular person to have those steady and unrelenting eyes on you. "My friend here is afraid of flying. I'm watching over him. I suggest you move seats," Cas said evenly.

The woman hastily fumbled with her seat belt and stood up so quickly that she almost hit her head on the bottom of the overhead compartment. She shuffled as fast as she could out of the seat and into the row behind her. Cas stood to the side to allow Dean to take the middle seat.

"Cas, that really wasn't necessary," Dean grumbled as he sat down. He clicked his seat belt securely and watched Cas click his seat belt as well. At first Cas hadn't understood them and Dean had to help him, but by the third flight, he knew what he was doing. "But thank you," Dean said quietly so that no one except Cas could hear him.

Another two flights dragged on, and with Sam snoring quietly next to him, Dean and Cas talked the entire time. By the time the trio landed in Cardiff, they had run out of things to talk about and were arguing effective hunting methods. Well, as much as Cas and Dean could argue. It was more like Dean arguing and Cas simply responding in his monotone way. Their argument delighted the little boy in the seat across the aisle from them and he listened intently while his mother read her book.

Cas and Dean followed Sam out to the airport terminal in Cardiff, both looking exhausted and annoyed. Sam gave them a quizzical expression and Dean shoved by him, saying, "Don't ask."

The Winchesters picked up their luggage and headed over to the hotel, where they got a few hours of sleep before changing into their fed suits and grabbing their fake IDs. By now it was early afternoon and the boys had to go check out the latest crime scene. It was the last place Dr. Joseph Burns had been sighted. Cas had disappeared once Sam and Dean left the airport.

Sam and Dean began their investigation like always. They showed up to the crime scene, flashed their badges, and were admitted, despite the fact that their badges were American. They gave the lead investigator, Detective Inspector Lestrade, their cover story, which he bought. The two men standing next to him hadn't seemed as quick to trust. The taller one's icy blue eyes had flickered with enough intelligence to unnerve both Winchesters.

The two men reminded Dean of Mutt and Jeff. He remembered reading the old comic strip at Bobby's when his dad was on a hunting trip and he and Sam were staying in Sioux Falls. John would occasionally drop the boys off at Singer Auto, if he was close enough. Staying at Bobby's was the closest thing to a normal childhood that Dean ever had. Sam had experienced a true sense of normal when he went to Stanford or when he was hanging out with friends from school, but Dean never had that luxury. Bobby was the one who taught him how to throw a baseball and watched football games on TV with him. Hell, Bobby even taught Dean a thing or two about real hunting and fixing up cars. But sometimes they would take out archaic newspapers that Bobby had kept from old cases and read the comics. Mutt and Jeff was a favorite and they'd pass the paper back and forth, laughing at the strange little printed people. But the two men in front of him, with their height difference and pompous dispositions that seemed foreign, harbored a great similarity to the characters Dean had read about.

Thankfully, both Mutt and Jeff bought their story. Mutt offered to show them the scene and the boys took him up on it. They went in and looked around a little, and that's when they realized that he hadn't bought their story at all. In fact, when Sam revealed their real identities, he knew exactly who they were, right down to their charges from the real FBI.

Then the yelling began, escalating into the threat of being deported back to the United States. Sam and Dean assumed that meant as convicts. Dean didn't know about Sam, but he certainly wasn't ready to go back to being harassed by people who didn't understand the danger and incarcerated for saving the world. He'd had about enough of handcuffs and interrogations from the people he was protecting.

That's when Cas decided to help, as usual. He had probably heard Dean's silent anxiety and decided that it merited his attention. With a soft swooshing of wings, Cas blinked into existence a few feet over Mutt's shoulder. "Dear God," Jeff swore under his breath. He scrambled backwards and knocked into a chair, almost falling over.

Mutt saw the look of alarm on his partner's face, though he didn't understand it. "Hello, Dean," Cas greeted over Mutt's shoulder. The man instinctively whipped around, but waited for Cas to make the first move of attack, if he was going to attack.

Mutt was shorter than the angel, but he studied him and looked at him as though he had the height advantage. His eyes were wide, but his breathing was even. He was trying to suppress his rising panic. He deduced that Cas hadn't come through a window, and the only doors to the room were behind his partner and to the left in plain sight. So how did he get in? His head spun, searching for possible answers.

"In case you were wondering, I didn't enter through means of this world," Cas offered.

"Alright, then tell me. How did you get in here?" Mutt demanded. His thick British accent and clipped speech was a beautiful contrast to Cas' overly proper American-accented English.

"Sherlock," his partner began. '_So his name is Sherlock_,' Sam thought. Sherlock snapped his head to look at Jeff sharply. "I saw him, he just appeared." Jeff sounded almost apologetic for not being able to give Sherlock the answer he wanted.

"John, that's not possible," Sherlock growled. Dean wanted to laugh to himself at the name John, but suppressed it. He hadn't been far off the mark with his nickname for the guy.

"Hey, Cas," Dean smirked smugly. Sam nodded to the angel in greeting. Both boys felt empowered again. They had the upper hand on Sherlock. They knew something he didn't and now he knew it.

Cas looked up and gave a curt nod to the boys before answering a demanding Sherlock. "I flew. My name is Castiel. I'm an angel of the Lord."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, studying Cas. He turned and walked towards John, pulling out his phone as he did so. He walked out of the room typing, disgust clear on his face, and John sighed. He looked up at the three men standing before him with a look that conveyed apology, frustration, and confusion.

"You boys are really putting him off, you know that?" he said accusingly. "No doubt he's gone to Lestrade and asked that you're removed from the scene at once."

"Well, what were we supposed to do?" Dean asked angrily.

"Look, I'm not going to fight with you, ok?" John asked, more of a statement than a question. His eyes widened to show sincerity. "An angel or…whatever you are appearing out of thin air is enough for me to believe that there might be something bigger here. It's at least something Sherlock and I haven't gone up against. I haven't decided yet whether it's technology or something different, but I'll believe you when you say we need your help. I was an army doctor, I've been trained to trust my eyes and I know what I saw."

Sam relaxed a little, unaware that he'd tensed in the first place. "Thank you…" he began, but trailed off. He wanted a real introduction.

John stuck his hand out. "John Watson," he offered. He nodded his head in the direction of the exit. "And that was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective."

Sam shook his hand. "Thank you, John," he said gratefully.

Sherlock strolled back in with four of Lestrade's officers flanking him. "Those three," he growled. "Get them out of my sight."


	5. Chapter 5: A Ticket to the Moon

**Thank you so very much for your patience, and don't forget to review. I love feedback.**

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**Ch.5: A Ticket to the Moon**

_-London, England-_

Sherlock paced the length of 221b Baker Street. His hands were up in his usual "don't bother me while I'm being brilliant" way. His palms were open and hovered just in front of his face near his temples. John sat back in his chair, resting his cheek against his fist lazily. Sherlock was mumbling to himself, and John knew better than to ask him to clarify. He only mumbled this way when he was trying to think something through and this time, it was something he wouldn't be able to reason his way through.

Sherlock and John had come home on the tube from Cardiff after Sherlock finished snooping around Dr. Burns' house. Knowing Sherlock, he'd be waking John up early to go back in the morning because he'd either remember some minuscule detail that he realizes was important or he'd want a second look to do some real deducing. They had only planned on this investigation being a few hours at most, but with the appearance of this Castiel being and the American Winchester boys, it had put Sherlock off his focus. He spent so long after they left spitting out theories on Castiel to John that John doubted he'd even looked at evidence from Dr. Burns' kidnapping.

"Tell me again," Sherlock ordered. He stopped pacing to stare at John. Only John's eyes moved to meet his friend's. He huffed indignantly.

"Sherlock, I've told you three times," he complained.

"I need to hear you describe it again," Sherlock insisted manically. Perhaps John would use different adjectives that could point to some sort of new answer, new possibility. Sherlock needed something, anything that would give him an indication of what Castiel was or how he appeared. Angels just didn't exist.

John was quiet for a few moments, glaring at Sherlock. "I was just standing there, looking at you and he...he materialized! One minute it was just empty air, there was a noise like a quick gust of wind, and then he was there standing behind you."

"What did it look like? When he materialized?" Sherlock asked, leaning over to place a hand on either of John's armrests. He stared at John's face, as if the answer he was looking for could be read there like answers from a textbook. His thirsty ice blue eyes drank in every twitch, every flicker of emotion. John shifted uneasily under Sherlock's gaze.

"Sherlock. It's like I blinked, and he was there. No crawling out from under the table, no walking through one of the doors, no hiding behind the china cabinet. He was there too quickly for those to be any sort of explanation. He. Materialized," John said slowly and deliberately.

Sherlock straightened and turned away from John, facing the empty fireplace. He assumed a pose that suggested that his mind was working a mile a minute to figure this out. His left arm rested against his stomach and his right elbow rested on his left wrist, so that he could rest his chin in his right hand. If looks could kill, his piercing blue eyes would have melted through the mirror above the fireplace before Sherlock even acquired ownership of the piece. He was giving it the same intense look he was giving John, as if his reflection was just as suspicious.

"And now that you've had them kicked off the scene, they can't be of any use. We'd be lucky to run into them again, let alone talk to them and find out what this Castiel figure is," John said from his chair. The thought was both exasperating and comforting. With his Memory Mind Palace, it would be next to impossible for Sherlock to forget Castiel and the Winchesters. Trying to figure out something that required him to believe in something illogical would drive him mad. At the same time, if John could manage to bury the topic, it may never resurface again.

Sherlock waved him off silently. "They'll be in Cardiff for at least another twenty four hours. They're staying at the Luna Motel. If we really need them again, we can pop in for a visit."

"How do you know that?" John asked, bewildered, though he shouldn't have been. At this point, he should have been completely desensitized to Sherlock's deductions. But John had been on the scene, too, and hadn't noticed a thing indicating where the men were staying. He would think that after being around Sherlock so long that he'd pick up a few tricks.

"Wasn't it obvious?" Sherlock asked quizzically, looking over his shoulder at John. He had that look about him again. His eyebrows pinched delicately at the bridge of his nose and the rest of him remained rigid and alert, as per usual. It was the look he got that said, "We both know something else is going on here." But John never knew what that something else was.

Heaving himself from his cushy chair, John grumbled, "I hate The Look." He moved over to the kitchen while Sherlock resumed his staring contest with his reflection. John busied himself making them tea. He, unlike Sherlock, believed Castiel when he said he was an angel. Part of him thought he was mad for even considering it, but since there was no other explanation, he had to believe the Winchesters. Remembering a bit of advice Sherlock had given him once, John popped his head out of the kitchen. Sherlock was standing still as a statue. He hadn't moved an inch.

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however probable, must be the truth," John quoted at him. Sherlock's mouth twitched into a small smile. Perhaps John couldn't analyze tobacco ash and perfume. Perhaps he couldn't take one look at a person and read his entire life story. But he did know how to draw a smile out of the great Sherlock Holmes.

'_Sentiment_,' Sherlock supposed inwardly. John withdrew back to the kitchen and Sherlock sat in his chair to think. Well, he more so perched than sat, really. He was sitting on the back of his chair with his feet on the seat. He pressed his palms together in what looked like a silent prayer and closed his eyes. There must be an answer. Castiel was not an angel.

A strange sound began emanating from Sherlock's room down the hall. It started off soft and rose to a crescendo in a much louder roar before stopping. John poked his head back out of the kitchen, looking perplexed. Sherlock looked back at him, his face pinched, trying to place the sound.

"Sherlock?" John said with a hint of accusation. "What have you got in your room?" Sherlock just looked back at him, his features softening again. Like a cobra that had been waiting to strike, Sherlock gracefully leapt from his chair and flew down the hall to his room. John huffed and barreled after him. Sherlock flung the door open and stepped inside. John followed him and his jaw dropped at the sight that lay just beyond the open door. The police call box had smoky tendrils curling around the base and the frosted windows flashed. John's hands started to tremble slightly as he leaned over and asked, "Sherlock? When did you put a 1960's police box in your bedroom?"

"I didn't," Sherlock mumbled back softly. John looked up at Sherlock and saw something that resembled anger and annoyance in his pale blue eyes. John would have laughed at the fact that Sherlock wasn't concerned, but merely annoyed by a police box appearing in his room under different circumstances. But even John had to admit that he'd had enough weird for today with the angel materializing at a crime scene. After the Winchesters and Castiel were escorted off, Sherlock hadn't found much evidence. He found a dusting of salt in the kitchen and noticed that all of the electric kitchen appliances were plugged in, which wouldn't be unusual except that had gone out of his way to ensure that every last one was plugged in. That was the extent of the evidence Sherlock found. And now there was a police box from the 1960's in the flat.

Sherlock took a cautious step towards the large blue box to examine it, but the door to the box flew open on its own. Without warning, a wiry man wearing a dress shirt, pants, and suspenders stumbled out. His sleeves were rolled up and he wore a bow tie about his neck, goggles covering his eyes. Smoke poured out behind him and he was coughing and dirty from his messy brown hair to his polished shoes. He moved without much coordination and like he wasn't used to solid ground. Sherlock stepped back a few feet, his face white as a ghost.

The funny man hacked violently a few more times before straightening up and letting a goofy smile etch its way onto his face. He lifted his goggles and rested them across his large forehead, leaving circles of clean skin around his eyes like a raccoon. He planted his fists on his hips and John saw an odd device gripped in his right hand. It was about the size of a screwdriver. "Well, that was a bumpier ride than expected," he remarked, both proud and pleased with only a twinge of confusion. A sickening groan of machinery sounded loudly behind him, coming from inside the box. "Yes! Yes, alright, I hear you," the funny man called and smacked the box with the palm of his hand. "Sorry, the TARDIS is being very vocal today. Terribly rude, I know, considering you haven't met the old girl. You haven't met the old girl, have you?"

"No, and we haven't met you, either," John retorted calmly, but skeptically. "A little introduction might be nice. Who are you and where did you and your...your TARDIS come from?" he demanded. Sherlock stayed quiet, his eyes still wide and his face almost transparent from shock. John could tell his mind was racing trying to solve the equation and he looked like he would give out at any moment. He would run himself into the ground trying to solve this before believing something impossible. As for John, he had watched an angel materialize in front of his eyes today. Why not throw a mad man and a box on top?

"I'm the Doctor, who're you? And when am I?" the funny man asked.

"The Doctor? Doctor who?" John asked in reply.

The Doctor clapped his hands and grinned like a schoolboy. "Oh, I do love when they say that, I'm the Doctor, just the Doctor," he said, speaking rapidly and running over to check the clock by Sherlock's bed. "May 9," he mumbled under his breath.

"The date? Why do you need to know the date?" John questioned.

"And why haven't you answered my question? I told you who I was, now who are you?" the Doctor retorted.

"I'm John Watson, also a doctor. This is Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective," John answered. Under normal circumstances, John would know better than to give their names right away, but these were not normal circumstances. The Doctor seemed to be anything but hostile and despite John's trust issues, he thought their names weren't much to offer up to him. After all, John and Sherlock still had a distinct advantage in intellect, number, and strength, going by the Doctor's lanky frame.

The Doctor got excited at that, straightening up and grinning widely at Sherlock. "Sherlock Holmes, _the_ Sherlock Holmes…" he trailed off. "Never met you before. Oh, you're really…you're really something. Is this pre- or post-…"he trailed off again. "Pre-. Definitely pre-. Must be."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the Doctor, ignoring his inane prattling. "How?" he asked. John was surprised he could even say that much after the terrible shocks of the day.

"How what? What did you see?" the Doctor asked, concern and curiosity both apparent at once. He slowly moved closer to Sherlock to inspect him.

"How did your TARDIS get in my bedroom?" Sherlock growled. "What is a TARDIS? I demand answers."

A small smile melted its way across the Doctor's face and he gestured toward the box. "Instead of telling you, why don't I introduce you?" he offered. The Doctor strode towards the door and gave it a push. The door swung open and the Doctor stepped inside, motioning Sherlock and John to follow him.

"We won't all fit," John reminded him.

"Oh, we'll fit better than you'd think," the Doctor said cryptically. He pulled his head inside and John could hear him walking around in the TARDIS. John looked to Sherlock, who looked back at John briefly before following the Doctor. They both stepped inside and Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. John knew immediately why. His analytical mind had so much to take in about the TARDIS interior that he probably didn't know where to begin. The Doctor stood behind the console looking proud. "Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson, TARDIS. TARDIS, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson."

John stepped up to the console and with a shaky hand, reached for a dial to ensure he wasn't in some sort of hallucination. The Doctor reached over and slapped John's hand away. "Ow!" John cried indignantly. "What was that for?"

"Rule number one about the TARDIS. She's very picky about who gets to touch her. She doesn't like strangers. Loves my wife, though. Possibly more than me. 'Course, River knows exactly how to fly her. But you wouldn't know my wife. Do you know my wife?" the Doctor asked in his spitfire fashion.

"I-"

"How?" Sherlock yelled from the doorway. He was standing in the same spot as when he entered, looking around at everything that now entrapped him. "How does it work? How is this possible? This is impossible!" Sherlock cried.

"Simple explanation? I'm an alien and this is my spaceship," the Doctor replied calmly. "We travel through time and space."

"And the complicated explanation?" Sherlock prodded.

The Doctor smirked at Sherlock's question, like he expected that sort of response. "I'm a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey in the constellation Kasterborous. Just a few galaxies over, we're practically next door neighbors. This is my ship, the TARDIS, T-A-R-D-I-S, Time And Relative Dimension In Space. We fly all over the universe traveling and saving people and having adventures. Any more questions?"

"You look human," John said drily.

The Doctor opened his mouth to speak before closing it again and leaping down a set of stairs. John heard the sound of a metal bin opening and a rustling. He looked over the edge of the handrail to see the Doctor rummaging through a bin of various articles of clothing and strange devices. Sherlock stepped up to the console, finally allowing himself to inspect the piece of machinery he was standing in. He perused the various dials and their functions while the Doctor pulled a stethoscope out of the bottom of the bin. "Ah-ha!" he cried, slamming the bin shut. He danced up the stairs again and proudly handed the stethoscope to John.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" John asked.

"You said you're a doctor, why don't you check my heartbeat? I've been feeling a bit achy in the chest lately," the Doctor said.

John slowly and cautiously put the stethoscope on and pressed the tunable diaphragm to the right side of the Doctor's chest. His heart beat away as healthily as any man's. John straightened and pulled the earpieces out. "Ok, what was that for? Your heart sounds perfectly healthy," he asked skeptically.

"Now check the other one," the Doctor insisted, a twinkle in his eye. Giving the best "you're absolutely bonkers" face he could muster, John pressed the tunable diaphragm to the other side of the Doctor's chest. He blanched and gasped, ripping the earpieces out. Sherlock whipped his head up to see John's reaction and John stared at him.

"Sherlock, you might want to hear this," John said slowly. Sherlock wordlessly took the stethoscope and checked the Doctor's heartbeat for himself. His right side was a normal, healthy heartbeat. But sure enough, his left side was, too.

"Binary vascular system. Two hearts. Comes in handy," the Doctor proclaimed proudly.


	6. Chapter 6: Full Moon Crazy

**Yesterday, Sunday, June 23, 2013, at 8:13pm, I hit my 1,000th view. That's quite the milestone for me and I just want to thank all of you who have kept up reading my story. You have no idea how much it means to me. I love you all.**

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**Ch.6: Full Moon Crazy**

_-Cardiff, Wales-_

Dean Winchester paced the length of room 112 at the Luna Motel in Cardiff. Sam sat at his laptop at the breakfast table and was playing a local police scanner he tapped into. Castiel perched on the edge of Dean's unmade bed, his eyes following Dean back and forth across the room like he was watching a tennis match played by one person. The three were quiet while they sat and thought about what to do next. After the previous day's disaster with being kicked off the crime scene, Team Free Will needed a new plan fast.

Sunlight filtered in through the diaphanous curtains closed over the windows. Being on the ground floor, Dean wasn't a fan of open curtains. He insisted they be closed. If everyone could see in to his private area, he felt like a freak on display. It was an irrational discomfort, since no one would know they were hunters and they had no reason to think anyone would peer in at them. Sam didn't care whether the curtains were open or closed. He was used to being stared at like a freak anyway. But for Dean's comfort, they stayed closed.

Despite being mid-morning in Cardiff, Sam and Dean were exhausted. The intense jet lag wasn't something they were used to from traveling all over the US by car. Both Winchester brothers looked bleary eyed and weary. The difference was in temperament. Dean was more on edge than was normal and Sam was just not up to par. Cas was ok, as usual, since angels didn't need to sleep.

"Is it considered normal to walk back and forth on the same line for an hour?" Cas asked, tilting his head and squinting at Dean.

"Can we try getting back in with the badges?" Dean grumbled impatiently to Sam, ignoring Cas' question.

"Not likely," Sam sighed. "That guy, that...that Sherlock Holmes guy seemed to be the lead detective on the case. If he kicked us out, I highly doubt there's any way to get us back in. We've cornered ourselves, Dean, especially with the crazy talk about Cas. We're just lucky that other guy, Dr. Watson, was able to convince him not to have us deported. Try explaining that to Bobby."

"Why did we even try those FBI badges anyway?" Dean mumbled. "Even if we were real FBI, we'd have no right to be poking in this!"

Sam shook his head. "These aren't your run of the mill missing persons. These people are known all over the world. You really think they'd let your everyday tourist on the scene? At least being FBI, they'd think we'd have had some sort of training with this and could help a little bit."

"Yeah, and look how well that turned out." Dean stopped pacing and sat next to Cas, huffing to himself. "The sooner we get this figured out, the sooner we can go home. Wales isn't exactly the place I feel most comfortable."

"Perhaps we need a different approach," Cas offered.

Dean looked at Cas, unamused. "Oh gee, you think? But we're not getting back in anywhere without Sherlock Jackass giving the ok. Looks like we'll have to break in."

Sam scoffed at his older brother. "Dean, you saw the way that guy sized us up. You really think we could break in and he wouldn't know? Or better yet, you think he wouldn't know it was us?"

"Sam, I know he'd know it was us. But he doesn't know where to find us. We could be in and out fast, figure out what's taking these people, get them back, and get the hell out of Cardiff. The dude couldn't pin us down."

Dean had hardly finished speaking when the trio heard three sharp knocks on the door. Sam sighed and heaved himself out of his seat to answer it. He twisted the doorknob and rattled off automatically, "We don't need housekeeping right now, but new towels would be..." His voice trailed off. The three men waiting outside were clearly not motel housekeeping.

The visitors were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson from the crime scene the previous day. Accompanying them was a new man who wasn't at the scene. Judging by the goofy and mischievous look on his face, he was much less formal than the Holmes/Watson duo despite his dress pants, shirt, and bow tie. Sherlock was looking at Sam with distaste and contempt while John regarded him with a serious, but more apologetic face.

"Uh, Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson?" Sam asked nervously, glancing to Dean for help.

At the sound of their names, Dean's head snapped up and he approached the door with his typical swagger. "Son of a bitch," he growled when his eyes confirmed his brother's words. He glared at the three men, sizing them up and determining how long it would take two hunters and an angel to take down three British guys.

"Hello, Sam. Dean," Sherlock greeted with a tight smile. John had clearly advised him to behave. He outstretched his hand and Sam hesitantly shook it. "I see you remember me from yesterday's...incident."

"You kicked us off the crime scene," Dean said drily.

"You showed up impersonating American FBI agents," John argued back calmly. He nodded towards the inside of the motel room. "And with an angel in tow."

The third man poked his head forward between Sherlock and John with a look of concern and confusion. "An angel? It's not a stone one, is it?"

"No, um, it's not a stone one-" John started, shifting uncomfortably with the third man so close to him.

"It's a real one," Sherlock cut him off quickly, rolling his eyes.

"A real angel!" the man's eyes lit up. He rushed forward, pushing John, Sherlock, and both Winchesters out of his way. Castiel looked up at the man from where he still sat on the edge of Dean's bed. Cas' eyes grew wide and he scrambled to his feet at the sight of the stranger. "Hello, Real Angel!" the man practically yelled. "I'm the Doctor, just the Doctor."

"You-you-" Cas blurted, stumbling backwards a few steps.

"Hold on, hold on, Doctor who?" Dean demanded.

"Oh, two for two!" the Doctor clapped excitedly. Dean regarded the Doctor with a look of shock and a sneer. If this is what the doctors were like in Cardiff, he sincerely hoped he wouldn't get hurt hunting down whatever they were hunting.

"Erm, may we come in?" John asked, he and Sherlock still standing at the door.

Sam looked back at the two detectives and mumbled confusedly, "Yeah, yeah, sure, come in."

"Dean, Sam...I remember this man," Cas said evenly, though fear was clear on his face.

"You remember me? Have we met before?" the Doctor asked, intently gazing at Cas as if trying to place him. He was turning the tables on the poor angel and for once, Castiel knew how it felt to have your personal space invaded.

Cas' gaze flicked down, then back up, then down again as he moved around the Doctor towards Sam and Dean. "Not personally," he mumbled in response. He looked up at the Winchesters and tried to explain, "At the beginning of time, my Father created neanderthals, homo sapiens, homo sapien sapiens, but he also invented other intelligent species-"

"Like me!" the Doctor interjected. "Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey!"

"Gallifrey?" Dean spit out skeptically, narrowing his eyes. "Cas, you mean to tell me God invented aliens?"

"Well, yes-" Cas tried to answer.

"You're serious? And you forgot to mention this why?" Dean accused.

"You really believe I could have predicted an alien would show up here?" Cas asked, exasperated.

"Guys! Guys! Please!" Sam yelled, rubbing his eyes with his right hand. The room fell silent to let the younger Winchester speak. After a few moments of composing himself, Sam said, "Sit. Everyone. Now. Please." They didn't all respond immediately, but no one wanted to be the one to start the fight. They didn't like it, but all five sat, Cas and Dean on the edge of Dean's bed, the Doctor on the end of Sam's, and Sherlock and John in the chairs at the small breakfast table. Sam stood in front of the TV, wondering where to start. His head hadn't spun this much since way back when he got his visions about Azazel. "Alright, first question I can think of...uh, Doctor, who are you?"

"Hello!" the Doctor grinned. "I'm the Doctor, just the Doctor. I'm a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey."

"Beg your pardon?" Sam questioned.

"His kind was created prior to the human race. When my Father found that surviving on Earth didn't require a binary vascular system, he trimmed down the Time Lords to form humanity," Cas explained.

"Wait, I thought the neanderthals and them, the apes, were made before humans?" Dean asked quietly.

"My Father trimmed down a bit too much at first," Cas mumbled back matter-of-factly.

Dean replied with a deeply concerned, fearful look before training his eyes back on his younger brother. "Alright then..." Sam continued, looking as concerned as Dean. "Moving on to question two. Why are you here?" he asked, looking to Sherlock for answers on that.

Sherlock tilted his head the slightest bit as he looked at Sam without response. John cleared his throat and looked at Sherlock expectantly to nudge him on. Sherlock remained expressionless. John looked from Sherlock to Sam and back again before giving up. "Oh, for Christ's sake," he swore. "He needs your help. He won't admit it because it would damage his pride to say so, but this is bigger than he thought."

Sam blinked, a pleased expression spreading across his face. "What changed your mind?" he asked. John got the feeling he wasn't just asking about the boys helping the case. He was asking what changed Sherlock's mind about believing their angel story. Regardless of the question, Sherlock's answer was the same.

Sherlock nodded to the Doctor. "Ask him," he quipped. His eyes were wide to convey false solemnity and an edge of amusement.

Sam hesitantly turned his attention to the real life alien sitting on the end of his bed. The Doctor waved and began to speak. "Yes, the TARDIS rather rudely dropped me in their flat in London. I didn't know why until last night when I did a scan for alien tech in the area. An old friend of mine once told me it was a good thing to do and I kept forgetting, getting distracted by the others I traveled with...so I did a scan and found something. Residual energy," the Doctor explained. "Definitely alien. Not human."

Dean leaned forward with his elbows balanced on his knees so that he could face the Doctor. "Hey, Doc, are you sure it's alien? It couldn't be human, or say, demonic?" Dean asked. It was his best attempt at subtlety.

"Not human, not demonic," the Doctor confirmed. He squinted at Dean. "Who are you again?"

Sam looked to Sherlock and John. "And you believe this guy?" he asked incredulously.

"He had a TARDIS," Sherlock said simply, looking both amused and placid at the same time.

"What the hell is a TARDIS?" Dean questioned.

"I'll have to introduce you. Later," the Doctor said. "For now, we should go to the scene of that disappearance!"

"The Doctor's right. We need to figure out what we're up against," Sam agreed.

"Hold on, Lestrade won't let four more men on the scene," John reminded Sherlock, "especially not when you kicked three of them off yesterday."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I had them removed, I never said they weren't FBI. Gentlemen," he smirked, addressing the Winchesters, "we'll see you on the crime scene in an hour."

John began to protest, but Sherlock wasn't listening. It wasn't really his strong suit. He rose from his seat and walked to the door, exiting the motel room and moving towards the street to flag down a taxi. John followed after him, huffing at his behavior. The Doctor scrambled to his feet to follow Sherlock and John. He supposed leaving his TARDIS parked outside Sam and Dean's motel room would be wisest. So cab it was.

"Sherlock, I really hope you know what you're doing," John said in annoyance at the sidewalk. Cars raced past the two British men and the alien. It was a Tuesday, so the cars were filled with tourists and Welsh businessmen and women. An empty cab swerved over to the side of the road and Sherlock, John, and the Doctor climbed inside. John couldn't help but check the cabbie's face out of habit. After solving the case of a serial killer cabbie, one couldn't be too sure.

"Four," Sherlock decided.

"What?" John asked, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock looked at John, a thin smile pressed between his lips. "I'd say this case is becoming more of a four."


	7. Chapter 7: Bark at the Moon

**I apologize for the time it took to publish this. It's more of a transitional chapter, centered around Sherlock, John, and the Doctor. I've also been surprisingly busy this summer, as I took an unplanned two months off school this year and have been making up late service hours. Thank you very much for your patience, and the next chapter will be more Winchester-centered.**

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**Ch.7: Bark at the Moon**

_-Cardiff, Wales-_

After Sherlock and John's strange introduction to the alien in Sherlock's bedroom, it was decided that they had to return to Cardiff the next morning. This may seem like an incredibly simple decision to make, but it haunted Sherlock through the night. He had been wrong. Aliens, angels, they really existed. He stared up at John's ceiling, unblinking. Refusing to sleep in his own room because of the TARDIS currently occupying much of the floor space, John had been gracious enough to take the couch while Sherlock took John's room. Well, I say "gracious"...

Castiel and the Doctor's appearances had completely shattered any logic that Sherlock possessed. They should not have existed. They were impossible creatures that had shown up in one place at one time. That's how Sherlock knew he needed the Winchester's help, much as he despised admitting it. And he wouldn't, you know. He wouldn't admit he needed help. He wouldn't let the words escape his lips.

And so he spent the night studying the room around him. He was rarely ever in John's room because he had no need to be. John was his friend, one of an elite group that Sherlock chose to ally himself closely with. Sherlock knew John without having to poke around his room. Besides, the ex-army doctor was a private man and Sherlock respected that enough to not prod too much. He'd occasionally rummage through John's room for his laptop when necessary, and it wasn't below him to hack John's password to use the laptop when he pleased, but he didn't deliberately poke around in an attempt to learn more about John. His powers of deduction told him all he needed to know.

In the morning, Sherlock woke up in a strange bed. He moved his hand over the sheets and felt around for his nightstand, which was two inches too far to the right. So it was that Castiel and the Doctor were real and Sherlock had spent the night in an unfamiliar room. Accepting this fact with irritated resignation, Sherlock sighed harshly before dragging himself out of bed and grabbing his dressing gown that he had hung on the back of John's door. He tugged it on and moved toward the kitchen, where John was making coffee.

He looked rumpled and Sherlock could tell he'd awoken about ten minutes prior. If the barely noticeable crumbs in the sheets and the few sticking to the corner of John's mouth were any indication, sleeping near the kitchen had given excuse for a midnight snack as well. The tension in John's shoulders said he hadn't been overly comfortable and the slightly stiff movement of the neck said that his neck was sore, possibly from craning it to watch telly as he dozed off. His laptop was on the cluttered desk in between the windows, and the sheet of paper resting atop it said that the laptop hadn't moved last night. John hadn't been online. That made three days straight that John hadn't updated his blog on the goings-on of Holmes and Watson.

"Sleep well?" John asked politely as Sherlock sat heavily in a chair at the kitchen table. Sherlock gave John a pointed look, and when John turned around to see it with a mug of coffee in each hand, he didn't look surprised. He set a mug in front of Sherlock and took the seat across the table. "Yeah, me either," he mumbled across the microscopes and files strewn haphazardly on the tabletop. He didn't have the heart or patience to try to organize Sherlock's mess, so it was left as was and accepted as one of Sherlock's quirks.

Sherlock wrapped his hands around the mug of hot coffee and glanced around at his old files on the table. Among his analyses of tobacco ash and perfume, he had done studies on different soils, shoes, minerals, plant origins, and even typical baking needs. His eyes skimmed over old psychology papers he had written and forensics research, along with dog breed fur identifications and a report on a sample of bacteria he had left in the freezer. That had been an interesting day when John was looking for something to thaw for dinner. What he had found was a severed finger wrapped in formaldehyde-soaked gauze and suspended by twine. Sherlock had been curled up in a ball watching crap telly intently when John had approached him, pinching the bridge of his nose and asking Sherlock to please keep his experiments on the left side of the freezer so that formaldehyde didn't drip on the frozen food.

The memory made Sherlock smirk into his coffee and John shot him a puzzled look. "What's so funny?" he asked.

Sherlock looked up at him quietly for a moment, but didn't get the chance to speak. The Doctor strode in quickly, stretching his arms above his head and yawning, though he was fully dressed and ready to tackle the day. Both John and Sherlock's faces fell as he practically bounced around the kitchen, reading papers every so often. Sherlock scowled at the too-chipper Doctor.

"Good morning!" the Doctor greeted. "You wouldn't happen to have any Jammy Dodgers, would you?" he asked, looking through different cabinets. "I love the things. Breakfast foods are overrated anyway." He opened up the pantry looking hopeful, but his face fell and he quickly slammed the pantry closed and turned to press his back against the door as if something would escape. Horror decorated his face as he gulped, "On second thought, perhaps I'll just have tea..."

Not in the mood to laugh at the Doctor's shock, John just glanced at the Doctor, looking grumpy. "For a thousand year old alien, you'd think you'd have seen it all," he grumbled.

"'Course not!" the Doctor cried. "That's the fun of it! Always more to see, more to do, you never get bored," he rattled on. "Important people to meet, like you two!"

"Like us two? What do you mean?" John implored.

"You two! The greatest detectives Scotland Yard has ever seen! Holmes and Watson, the Reichenbach heroes!" the Doctor announced proudly. "And that crime database, by the way, lovely, though they could have named something for John." The Doctor's proud exclamation was met with blank stares from the two greatest detectives Scotland Yard had ever seen. His face fell to be replaced with pure concern. "Oh, I see, hasn't happened yet," he mumbled, wringing his hands. "Tenses are hard," he said dejectedly.

Sherlock and John were at a loss for words. The Doctor continued moving hurriedly around the kitchen looking for Jammy Dodgers before finally giving up and leaning a hand on the kitchen table. There was an awkward silence between the three of them that lasted almost a full minute before John cleared his throat and stood. "Well," he announced, "I believe we should be getting on with the day. Big plans. Better ready for Cardiff." He put a tone in his voice that told the Doctor that it would be better to leave them in peace to proceed with their morning routines.

"Ah! Yes," the Doctor agreed. "I shall away to my TARDIS! See you on the other side." With that, he bounced back to Sherlock's room. A few moments later, the sound of the TARDIS' engine filled the flat and dissipated just as quickly.

Sherlock raised his steaming mug of coffee to his lips slowly and smiled at John in his own way. "Not what you'd expect," he murmured.

Sherlock and John took the tube back to Cardiff and hopped in a taxi to the Luna Motel. They didn't see the Doctor, but they weren't very surprised. Based on the way he dropped into 221b, Sherlock deduced that the Doctor frequently misjudged target areas and had a skewed sense of time as a result of the prolonged travel in the fourth dimension. He didn't suppose they'd see the Doctor again for a while, and until Sherlock had the time and desire to explore the mechanics of a machine like the TARDIS, the Doctor's appearances would be unpredictable.

But as the duo pulled up to the motel, Sherlock stepped out to view the TARDIS parked outside a ground level motel room. John paid the cabbie, thanked him, and stepped out behind his partner. "Really?" he asked, looking at the large blue box. "Very inconspicuous, he is."

Sherlock approached the TARDIS like he was inspecting a fine racehorse. His gaze flitted across the simple wood. The TARDIS was neither grandiose nor plain. It was neither a telephone box nor one that obeyed the laws of physics as defined on earth by humans. It was neither ordinary nor extraordinary. The TARDIS was a paradox in and of itself.

The Doctor flung the doors open wide and saw John and Sherlock milling about. Or rather, John was milling about while Sherlock inspected. "Ah! There you are!" he greeted. He gestured for Sherlock and John to follow him in, to which they obliged. The Doctor hopped over to the console monitor while John followed at his own pace. Sherlock walked stiffly with his hands clasped behind his back, scouring every inch of the TARDIS interior with his analytical gaze.

The Doctor swung the monitor over to face him and John. "See, I did a sweep for alien tech in the area last night. I had to find out why the TARDIS brought me here. Why now? Why you? Why bring me to this place in time?"

"Wait, didn't you get any sleep last night?" John asked. It was a simple-minded question, but just the type of question that would pique John's curiosity. You couldn't take the doctor out of the man.

"Of course," the Doctor replied. "I meant the second last night."

"Beg your pardon?" John questioned.

"The last night that happened when I left your flat and wound up in the correct place, but...last night at about the time I dropped into your flat. It's all very confusing, but long story short, I had time. I did a sweep for alien tech to see what's happened in the area and I found that six people have gone missing, six people on the verge of changing the world. Now, the question is, where are they going? Answer: they are being taken by something not from this world."

"And what do you suppose is taking them?" John asked.

The Doctor looked at John with concern. "I don't know. It's not a Slitheen, and it's not a Sontaran. I haven't figured it out yet, but the residual energy from the crime scenes is definitely not human."

John gave a curt nod. So the Doctor had debriefed himself on the situation at hand. Sherlock seemingly materialized by John's side to look at the screen. "So it translates alien languages in your head, some sort of telepathic link to the hard drive of the machine," Sherlock murmured.

"Excuse you," the Doctor cried, aghast. "This 'machine' has a soul! The TARDIS is alive, and you'd better mind your words or she won't like you very much."

Sherlock smirked knowingly. "Doctor, I assure you, if the TARDIS' soul is at all like ordinary women, she would thoroughly enjoy my fascination with her."

"She is anything but ordinary," the Doctor reminded Sherlock before turning back to his monitor. "But she does love attention…now then! Off to the crime scene, correct? Why did you ask me to land here? I'm not reading any energy here. Nothing important. Just a normal, non-alien-invaded motel."

John cleared his throat. "We, um...we have some friends here who can help."

"Hardly friends," Sherlock mumbled. John elbowed him in the ribs. Sherlock didn't amend his statement.

The Doctor clapped and grinned. "Good! Let's meet these hardly friends, then!" he said, taking off for the TARDIS doors. He flung them open and looked around outside. John and Sherlock followed calmly. "Where are they?" the Doctor asked, twirling around so his jacket flared.

John nodded towards the motel. "They're staying here. We can get the room number from the main lobby-"

"This one," Sherlock said and strode towards the closest door. The number 112 was nailed to the plain door. He looked down at John, who stood to his right. The Doctor took the spot between John and Sherlock, standing about a pace behind them. John took a breath before raising his fist to knock on the Winchesters' door.

One conversation and a taxi ride later, Sherlock, John, and the Doctor were back at Dr. Burns' home. Police tape still littered the area, keeping out nosy tourists and unauthorized personnel. Sherlock lifted the police tape and let it fall gracefully back in place behind him. Scotland Yard's finest were still swarming the man's home and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Too many people would taint the scene, but no one wanted to miss out on helping with the crime of the century.

Lestrade was standing near the door looking exasperated, as usual. He was rubbing his face and his eyes were wide with bags, an indication of sleep deprivation. It was likely that he had spent days, possibly even weeks with no more than five hours a night. Lestrade held a paper cup of coffee in his hand and sighed a lot as he instructed his officers. Sherlock and John approached him carefully, the Doctor trailing behind them.

"Sherlock," Lestrade greeted, sipping his coffee. "Back for more evidence? I thought you had a look yesterday."

"It would appear that things have...complicated a bit," Sherlock said, tone void of much emotion.

Lestrade furrowed his brow, but John interjected before he could ask. "We'd just like another look. Agents Plant and...and..."

"Page," Sherlock offered.

"Right, Agents Plant and Page should be here soon."

Lestrade only furrowed his brow again. "Plant and Page? The Americans I had escorted out yesterday?"

"There was a misunderstanding," Sherlock explained. "We've worked it out."

"Ah. And who is this?" Lestrade questioned.

The Doctor reached into a pocket inside his jacket and began rummaging about as John answered, "This is our friend, er..."

"Deputy assistant commissioner," the Doctor said, pulling out a wallet and flipping it open to reveal an ID card. Sure enough, the ID labeled the Doctor as a deputy assistant commissioner for Scotland Yard. "Just got promoted. They call me the Doctor."

"The Doctor," Lestrade repeated, taking a closer look at the ID card. "Seriously?"

"Oi, that's no way to talk to your superior," the Doctor replied.

"My apologies," Lestrade said, straightening. "No disrespect, sir."

"That's better," the Doctor said, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

John coughed, eager to get the conversation back on track. "Yes, well, Lestrade, do you mind clearing out some of your men for a bit so we can have another look?"

Lestrade shrugged, looking curious with a touch of suspicion. "I can clear out some of the area. Though I do wonder how you two were able to assemble a rag tag team of high ranking officers from two different countries."

"And there hasn't been a ransom call yet?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject.

Lestrade shook his head. "Not one. For any of the victims."

"Well, then this shall be interesting, won't it?" Sherlock smirked.


	8. Chapter 8: Harvest Moon

**Well, it would appear that I'm being infrequent again, aren't I? I feel very guilty as I've been in the midst of other writing projects and have also been spending admittedly too much time with my new Netflix player re-watching Supernatural, Doctor Who, and (you guessed it) Sherlock. Hopefully this will help a little bit, though! No worries about future updates, as I do actually have a framework that's rounding out nicely. Thank you for your continued readership, as I have reached 2,000+ views!**

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**Ch.8: Harvest Moon**

_-Cardiff, Wales-_

The door had just clicked shut behind Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and this mysterious new figure called "the Doctor," leaving the Winchesters and Castiel stunned in its wake. None of them moved for about a solid two minutes. They just sat and tried to wrap their heads around what had just transpired. Finally, Sam sank into his chair at the breakfast table. His laptop was still open and the police scanner was softly playing static. It was the only noise in the room until Dean spoke.

"Alright, what the hell was that?" he asked. That was Dean, for you. Always asking the important questions.

"Well, I believe-"

"Shut up, Cas," Dean muttered, rubbing his face with his hand.

Cas was quiet for a moment, looking perplexed before his face lit with understanding. "Oh, I see. That was a, ah, rhetorical question."

Sam nodded silently for a few minutes before putting in his own two cents. "Well, it looks like we don't have to break in after all. Dean and I will go get ready, and Cas, we'll call you when we're on our way, ok?"

With a whoosh of what sounded like feathers in the wind, Cas was gone. Dean was alone on the end of his bed. Neither Winchester blinked an eye at the sudden disappearance. It was natural for them, now, to have an angel pop in and out of a room at will. If Dean hadn't been so focused on the mission at hand, he would have smirked at his first memory of Castiel, one of the very few times he hadn't just materialized out of thin air.

It had been in that old creaky warehouse in Pontiac, Illinois. Dean had been preparing with Bobby to summon Cas. At the time, they only had a name, not a being. Of course they had wallpapered the room with devil's traps, Zoroastrian sigils, Hindu, Jewish, and Christian marks from all walks of faith. They had needed something, anything to protect themselves. They had been armed, hell, they had been ready to take on anything except the being that walked through those doors. But no matter how many times Mary Winchester had told her son, "Angels are watching over you," Dean couldn't have even hoped to predict this. Rescued from hell by an angel. Dean had to admit it was all still very impressive, despite the fact that angels were dicks, as it turned out.

Sam stood from where he had been sitting. He stretched his arms behind his back, grunting. He was still deep in thought about what to make of the Doctor. He rubbed his face before he seemed to gather his wits and grabbed his fed suit. He walked off to the bathroom and Dean flopped backward on the bed. He should have started packing up their duffel of hastily thrown together hunting supplies, but he couldn't bring himself to do more than lay on his bed reeling at this point. He re-played the conversation in his head until he hit an interesting part and sat up.

Cas had said that he knew the Doctor, but they hadn't met. Now Dean knew that the names of all the prophets were engrained in Cas' mind, but Dean was willing to bet his Impala that the Doctor wasn't a prophet of the Lord. The next question was, if he wasn't a prophet, how did Cas know him? Did angels instinctively know all the Martians God created, too?

The thought was so strange that Dean shook his head and went to grab their army green duffel. He tossed it on the bed, sending grocery store canisters of salt and makeshift bobby pin lock picks sprawling across the comforter. Sam emerged from the bathroom in his suit just as Dean was packing away a water bottle of Holy Water from a nearby Church and wooden stakes made of tree branches they had seen on the side of the road. They had collected as much as they could from convenience and grocery stores, but they still had no guns and no access to any. They'd have to improvise.

"All packed up?" Sam asked, poking at the bag a little to double check the inventory.

"Yeah, just gotta get suited up. What do you think Cas meant when he said he knew the Doctor?" Dean asked, turning to Sam.

Sam nodded, looking pensive. "You know, I was wondering the same thing. Prophet?"

"Do they have alien prophets?"

"Good point. Someone important?"

"I've only known the guy for about ten minutes and he's absolutely not someone I'd put in charge of anything," Dean said, eyebrows raised.

"Well...go get suited up. We'll ask Cas."

In less than half an hour, Dean and Sam were packed up and on their way to Dr. Burns' home. Dean was driving, even in a rental, with Sam riding shotgun. It was the natural order of things and Sam didn't make a fuss anymore. It wasn't a fight he was going to win, and he was a better navigator than Dean, anyway. When Dean got frustrated, he'd get angry and get them even more lost. At least Sam could keep a cool head about it and get them where they needed to go.

"Hey, Cas," Dean called as they were pulling out of the motel lot. He looked both ways before pulling out onto the right. "You hearing me?"

"Dean!" Sam screamed as a car barreled straight at them.

"Jesus!" Dean yelled, yanking the wheel to swerve into the left lane.

"Sorry, my half brother always seems to be on call," Cas said from the backseat. Sam swiveled around to look at Cas. "Will I suffice?"

"Cas, can't you like, teach Dean how to drive or something?" Sam said, effectively annoyed.

"Hey! It's backwards here!" Dean growled. "People don't have the right to a freakin' gun, they drive on the wrong side of the road, their time zone's all screwy..." Dean trailed off, mumbling under his breath.

Sam ignored his older brother, taking the opportunity to ask Cas what they had both been wondering. "Hey, by the way, what did you mean when you said you knew the Doctor?"

Dean shut up so he could hear Cas' reply. Cas took a deep breath, as if the answer was information he wasn't supposed to disclose to the Winchesters. Then again, every other word he said around the boys wasn't meant for them to hear. "Gabriel said that even at the beginning of life on Earth, every angel knew that it would end with you two," he began.

"Yeah, except it didn't, so everything wants our heads on a stake," Dean interjected. Sam shushed him to let Cas continue.

Cas took a moment to think about his word choice before he spoke. "Well, Earth wasn't the only planet God created. He created other planets, other life forms, in reaches of the galaxy that mankind will never even hope to reach. One of those was the Doctor's planet, Gallifrey, in the constellation Kasterborous. He wasn't lying when he said he was a Time Lord."

"But that doesn't tell us how you know him," Sam prodded.

"Yeah, Cas, what aren't you telling us?" Dean questioned.

Castiel was quiet another moment before speaking. "Just like the angels knew this world would end with you, so we knew that Gallifrey would end with the Doctor."

"Wait, so you're saying-" Sam started.

"He's the last of his kind, the Time Lords, yes," Cas answered.

"Wait, let me get this straight. That happy-go-lucky alien thing we just met brought about the apocalypse on Gallifrey?" Dean asked. His head spun at the notion that the Doctor could have just let Gallifrey die.

"Yes. He was a brave warrior in the Time Lords' fight against another species, the Daleks. He was a soldier of the last great Time War. But his people were put in a time lock and Gallifrey destroyed to protect the rest of the universe from the Daleks and certain implosion. He narrowly escaped, living with the knowledge that he is alone in the world, the one who killed all his people, and the one who continues to commit mass genocide for the sake of what he believes is right."

"So he's basically what we would have been had we failed to stop the apocalypse?" Sam continued.

"If you'd prefer to look at it that way, I have no objections to your perspective," Cas stated diplomatically.

"And he's probably the most dangerous monster we've ever faced?" Dean asked.

"No, he's not a monster, and he's not typically dangerous to humans. In fact, he's done wonders to save this planet from invasions. He even takes some humans along with him on his travels. They're his companions."

"He's done wonders? He's saved this planet?" Dean spluttered, getting angry and flustered. "We stopped the apocalypse! We saved this planet from being completely overrun by demons and Lucifer himself!"

"Dean, I believe there's a term for what you're feeling," Cas said, furrowing his eyebrows and looking perplexed.

"We've saved this planet over and over again! Hell, we've been resurrected more times than freakin' Jesus. We said no to those sons of bitches who wanted to possess us and make the world a battleground for your family issues! And now you're telling me he's done wonders because he stopped First Contact?"

Dean pulled over to the sidewalk and threw the car in park, shutting off the engine. His hand was still on the key in the ignition when Cas perked up from the back and said confidently, "Inferiority complex!"

Dean turned around and gave Cas the dirtiest look Sam had ever seen. Then, Dean yanked the keys out, shoved the door open, and slammed it closed behind him. Sam sighed, knowing Dean would pout for days for that comment. Cas squinted and tilted his head, confused as to what he did to deserve the look from Dean. Evidently, he believed he had been helping by diagnosing Dean's struggle.

"Better not to ask," Sam grumbled, stepping out onto the curb.

Cas nodded in acceptance and followed Sam's lead. He may not have been completely used to human culture, but he knew that there were certain times where it was unwise to talk to Dean if one wished to avoid conflict. The angel had yet to fully grasp when those times were, but Sam was helping him. After all, Sam knew Dean best, despite Cas and Dean's profound bond.

The trio walked up to the crime scene, still covered in yellow police tape. Barely looking at the guy, Lestrade, who had escorted them out the day before, Dean flipped open his badge and said, "FBI, Agent Plant." He continued walking right through the front doors to find Sherlock, John, and the Doctor.

"Sorry, sir, back on police business," Sam apologized, showing Lestrade his fake badge. Cas flipped open his ID from the one time Dean had brought him on a hunt as an FBI agent, careful to make sure it was right side-up this time.

Lestrade glanced at the badges briefly before saying, "Yeah, go right in. Sherlock told me you'd be back. Is this the last day, then?"

"Hopefully, but I wouldn't hold my breath," Sam admitted.

Lestrade chuckled. "Well, you're working with the best in the business. Sherlock Holmes is a great man with a mind to baffle any genius. I'm sure he'll have this solved in no time."

"Sir, how long has Sherlock been on your force? It just seems strange that you speak so highly of him, but he's just a simple detective," Sam asked Lestrade.

Lestrade looked blown away by the notion of Sherlock working for him. "No, no, Sherlock isn't on my force. He's too good to be bothered with trivial police work. And he doesn't take orders from anyone. No, he invented his job, calls himself a consulting detective."

"I see," Sam nodded, furrowing his brow in thought.

"Besides, he doesn't work well with my force," Lestrade said. "Harasses my forensics team all the time. It's like playing referee to school children."

Sam chuckled to himself. "Yeah, I know what you mean," he said. Of course Sam understood. He frequently had to calm down Dean and Cas and serve as umpire himself. Those two always seemed to be going at it, even with this "profound bond" Cas claimed they shared. Half the time, Sam couldn't tell if Dean wanted to strangle Cas or laugh at him. But even as crazy as those two drove him, Sam couldn't have imagined a better family, given all that had happened. I mean, what other family would literally go to hell and back for each other? Sam loved Dean and Cas more than he could ever say. It was just something that went unspoken. That's why it weighed on him so much when he let them down. But Sam hoped to change that soon. He wouldn't let them down again.

Dean poked his head out the front door. "Sam! Cas! You coming?"

"Better be getting on, then," Lestrade said.

Sam nodded. "Thank you, sir. I hope we can help." Sam started off to the front door while Cas stood behind, looking at Lestrade. "Cas?" Sam called.

"Go to Dartmoor on March 14, 2012," Cas said flatly.

"Sorry, what was that?" Lestrade asked.

"Dartmoor," Cas replied before Sam pulled him away towards the door, leaving a puzzled Lestrade in his wake.


End file.
